


Temperate

by mydwynter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn, Summer, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John steps out from the clinic and smacks head-on into a stifling wall of humid hell.</i>
</p><p>It's just too hot for this nonsense, John believes. Sherlock—as usual—thinks he knows better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temperate

**Author's Note:**

> Done for this year's amnesty entry into [Kink Bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), for the square "temperature play".
> 
> Thanks to my betas Mazarin221B and HiddenLacuna for all their (snarky, hilarious) assistance in this endeavour.

Come the height of July the world is sluggish with heat, melting and streaming down the pavement, oozing with lethargy. Londoners who stop to talk to each other do so only in the cooler shadow of the overhangs. They hold their limbs out from their bodies in a bid for airflow, they fan themselves with rolled-up magazines, they press their sweating cups of iced mocha to their necks as they chat.

John steps out from the clinic and smacks head-on into a stifling wall of humid hell. He sighs, sags, and blows out his last cool breath for two days; the clinic's ageing climate control can barely handle the summer heat, but it's better than the fans they have at home, and John reluctantly sucks up a sweltering lung-full before he cracks his neck and sets out.

He wonders what circle of hell the Tube belongs to at this point in the summer, at this point in the day, and he only stops by the stairs to the nearest stop for the briefest hesitation before he bypasses it entirely. Instead, he pays too much money for a bottle of water and sets off on foot, heat be damned.

By the time he closes the door to 221, John is soaked with sweat and exhausted. He doesn't even go into the lounge. He drops his bag at the door, sets the empty bottle on the kitchen table, and cuts directly through to the bathroom, already stripping off his shirt and vest as he goes, dropping them in a sodden heap in the corridor.

There's one thing he's glad for as John turns on the shower: Sherlock is meant to be off somewhere all day and into the night, doing research. The stifling heat and the faltering air conditioning at the clinic has been leaving everyone cranky—patients and doctors alike— and John desperately needs a break from Sherlock's shit. He wants to start his two blissful days off with a cool shower and some much-needed quiet. No messes, no cases, nothing.

John peels his jeans and pants down his sticky thighs and steps into the shower. He shivers happily. It's restful, and cool, and John smiles as he stands there letting his sweaty, tiring, interminable day stream off down the drains.

The happiness doesn't last though, because not a minute later the bathroom door opens and John sees a familiar shadow through the curtain. John groans. "No, Sherlock, go away. It's too fucking hot."

Stomach sinking, John watches Sherlock set something down outside the shower and climb in anyway. For once in his life, the million miles of pale skin is unwanted, and John stifles the urge to growl as Sherlock grins and grabs his wrist.

"Don't touch me— Damn it, Sherlock, I'm not in the mood for this. It's too…" John grunts. Sherlock is trailing his mouth down the inside of John's upper arm and it's cold as hell and shocking and _brilliant_. "Hngh. What the fuck—Is that an ice cube?"

Sherlock's only signal of assent is the quiet noise he's making in his throat. Meanwhile, he's still mouthing down John's arm. When he reaches his inner elbow, John is hit with a jolt of cold. Sherlock presses the ice cube to John's skin with his tongue, hard, and rivulets of frigid water flow out of his mouth and around to John's elbow, where it mixes with lukewarm shower water as it falls. John shivers, trying to regain his breath. And Sherlock just chuckles.

"Sherlock. The hell?" John asks. Sherlock drops to his knees and reaches just outside the shower where there's a rattling noise, then he pops what's probably another cube into his mouth. He looks up at John through his sodden fringe, his eyes dark and full of mischief. But he doesn't answer. Instead, he leans forward and presses an icy spot into the cradle of John's hip. John jumps a mile. Sherlock's hands clench on his sides, practically bruising him, and John can hear Sherlock chuckling, the bastard. Sherlock slides the cube in his mouth down the front of John's thigh, leaving a cold trail on his skin. It makes the water that follows after feel almost like fire, though the shower is barely warm at all. The discrepancy makes John's brain stutter momentarily.

"That's…interesting," John says, biting his lip, the last vestiges of his irritation falling away. He's categorising the sensations as Sherlock's hand trails up John's shin, and then suddenly a spot of intense cold is pressing into the crook of his knee. He vainly tries to buck it up away from Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock just keeps it pressed there, riding John's agitated movements. John makes a strangled noise and fights to get control of his leg back, but Sherlock is the one with a stable centre of balance and John is the one trying not to thrash so much he slips and falls. "Sherl— Sherlo— SHERLOCK. Gah. Stop. Stoppit. Christ."

Sherlock, the insufferable prat, just laughs at him and keeps the ice cube pressed there until it melts enough to slip between his fingers during John's wriggling. Before John can dive for the supply outside the shower, Sherlock has leaned forward and taken John's limp cock into his mouth.

John strangles a cry and freezes. He settles his weight on both feet and stares blindly up at the far corner of the stall, up near the ceiling, gulping with surprise. "Sherlock. What, just—" His blood immediately rushes south. It's an unavoidable reaction, really, and even if it hadn't been, a quick glance at the gorgeous and sodden thing there on his knees at John's feet—with his lips wrapped around John's cock—would be enough to get it interested in the proceedings. His eyes fall closed. "Christ." His head tips back and he groans. "God, oh. _Yesss…_ " He gives up and lets himself slip under, melting brainlessly into arousal. His cock twitches harder as Sherlock shifts on his knees, and then Sherlock is trailing his knuckles up the back of John's thigh. _Ohhh._ John has a distinct idea where this might be headed, and he's not particularly disappointed at all. Just the idea of it pulses John harder in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's hand nudges up between John's arsecheeks, and John spreads his stance wider, anticipation coiling in his gut.

Then he lets out a guttural scream, and is only at the very last second reminded by the slight tugging at his crotch that Sherlock still has his cock in his mouth and jumping might be ill-advised. John's knees bend and straighten, though, as if it could help somehow; Sherlock is pressing an ice cube up against his sphincter, and it feels like nothing John can easily describe. It's flame and burning cold, it's numbing, it's a visceral punch to his system, and though John is having trouble breathing through the shock his dick still twitches with interest.

"Damn it, Sherlock," John manages between gasps. He grabs Sherlock's hair and pulls, but all that does is make Sherlock groan around his half-hard cock. John's eyes roll back into his head.

John's system is on overdrive: he's flooded with adrenaline, lungs bursting in the humid air, his cock giving off signals of pleasure while his arse is trying to tell him that something is wrong but also kind of right, and all the while his core temperature has been lowered to the most comfortable level it's been at all day.

The combination feels like a mild hallucination, when he focusses on it. His head swims with sensation, especially when Sherlock starts sucking and sliding his wet tongue all around the head. John can't help the broken groan that bounces off the tile. He tightens his fist in Sherlock's hair again, pulling another buzzing noise out of Sherlock, and he thickens once, twice, again. He feels hard as hell.

The ice cube has melted enough already that Sherlock's pressing has started to breach John’s arse, and with a brief slip of his fingers Sherlock turns the bit of ice cube and starts to push it inside. John strains to pull enough air into his lungs, whimpering.

"Oh _god_ …" he moans, and Sherlock takes his hand away. It gives John just enough of a reprieve so he can gasp a few times in relief before the hand is back with a fresh cube. He cries out, his legs bowing, and then Sherlock begins sucking in earnest.

With his legs spread like this, his cock feels heavy and full, exposed and hard all the way to the root of him. Sherlock trails his free fingertips all the way from where his other hand is pressing the ice cube, along his perineum, between his balls, and up to the head of John's cock, around which Sherlock's mouth is wrapped. John can feel the touch along every centimetre. If he could get harder at this point, he's sure he would be. He moans.

The cold is no longer shocking, but numbing, and it's starting to spread outward between his arse cheeks and forward. Sherlock tongues at the slit of his cock and it sends pleasure down into the core of him, the part that's rapidly being overtaken by the cold. The shower water on his chest and shoulders feels burning hot.

He's having trouble breathing, and his thighs are starting to shake with the strain. Sherlock pulls on his balls, and John grits out a sound on the exhale that, apparently, Sherlock likes, because he does it again, then sucks with even more enthusiasm than before. He shoves the second ice cube sideways into John's arse, slowly, shockingly, then holds it there as John feels the curious sensation of an orgasm beginning in a place he can only slightly feel. It feels tighter than usual, like a thrumming, a squeezing, a twisting, and then John moans as the pleasure crashes around him. With the first spasm of orgasm his sphincter pulses, causing the ice to slip inside of him. It feels like coming in reverse, like fire moving into him even as he feels himself spurting into Sherlock's mouth. He cries out, legs shaking violently, and Sherlock grabs his hips and sucks him down.

John moans, over and over, and in a slow-motion collapse finds himself sitting on the shower floor, twitching in Sherlock's embrace. His eyes flutter as his body gives a few last squeezing attempts at orgasm, then he goes boneless, panting. He feels Sherlock's lips against his temple.

"Okay, John?" asks Sherlock. His voice sounds rough.

"Guh," John says. He's not really up for any sort of conversation at the moment.

The shower water turns even colder, and John starts shivering. A tiny, still-working thread of thought suggests that his system is taxed and perhaps he might best dry off and have a lie-down. As if Sherlock heard it aloud, John feels him turn the shower turn off then lets himself be helped up and out of the shower and wrapped in a towel. He stares blindly at the bathroom door as Sherlock dries himself off, then leans on him as they make their way to the bedroom. John turns his face into Sherlock's neck and breathes.

"Thank you," he says, and Sherlock rubs his back.

"Cooler now?"

John chuckles weakly. "You could say that." The temperature of the night air pouring in through the window has dropped only a little, but the three fans Sherlock has going help immensely. In fact, the chill makes John shiver, and he grins. "Perfect." 

He clambers naked onto the bed and flops there, relaxed and happy and comfortable for the first time all day. Sherlock crawls in beside him. "You knew I had a shite day, didn't you?" John asks as Sherlock brushes John's damp fringe off his forehead.

Sherlock smiles and nods. "It seemed likely."

"So you wanted to cheer me up."

Sherlock nods, and his grin broadens. He looks smitten. "Of course."

John smiles sweetly. "What did you do?"

In a flash, Sherlock's eyebrows have climbed into an expression of innocence. "What do you mean?"

John scoots closer to cuddle him, his affectionate body language belying his words. "You either broke something, lost something, annoyed someone, or otherwise destroyed an object I hold dear. Which is it?"

Sherlock scowls. "John. Why would you assume—"

Rolling his eyes, John snorts. "Give me a break, Sherlock. Just tell me."

Still scowling, Sherlock peers sideways at John, his mouth a line. Then he says, "I… We may need a new blender."

For a moment, all John can do is blink at him. The lethargy from the orgasm is gone, leaving only a dull sense of acceptance. "What the fuck did you do?"

Sherlock gives John his 'I don't want to tell you' face, but says, "I was working on a new design."

"…For what?"

"A…cooling device."

"Another fan?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Sherlock," John coughs, halfway between annoyed and amused, "you're not an engineer. We've talked about this."

Sherlock pouts. "It shouldn't have been that difficult."

"People study engineering at uni." Sherlock waves that away. "You studied how to blow things up and break things down."

"I think that's simplifying things slightly, John."

"Oh, this will be easy," John says with his best Sherlock impression. "I will improve upon current technological fan-science with my household blender and pervasive command of chemistry and my stunning lack of physics knowledge."

Sherlock just pouts harder, which only succeeds in making John laugh. "Did you clean up your mess?"

"Yes."

"Good. Stay there."

Sherlock sits up to watch John parade toward the door, starkers. "Where are you going?"

John smirks at him. "To get the bowl of ice cubes. You _actually_ cleaned up your mess for once, and I'm going to give you a reward." He flashes Sherlock a cheeky smile before he leaves, and the grin broadens as the sound of Sherlock's chuckle follows him into the corridor.


End file.
